The Taste of Glass
by Marina SeaCrest
Summary: Based on a story prompt from likehemmins/peacetealuke/stressedhood on tumblr. Unedited, freewriting oneshot. Fluff. Dramione with implied Hinny.


**Title:** The Taste of Glass

 **Rating:** T

 **Notes:** This is based upon the following prompt, originally posted by likehemmins/peacetealuke/stressedhood) on tumblr:

"imagine that you've been stood up by your douche of a boyfriend on date night and the waitress keeps asking if you're ready to order but you keep asking for more time hoping that he's just late. people are starting to look at you with those apologetic looks like they know and you start to feel worse and worse about the whole situation but as you decide to just get up and leave, this boy you've never seen sits down explaining loudly "sorry i'm so late, babe, traffic is crazy right now." and he quietly adds, "i'm Michael. just go with it, yeah? whoever didn't bother to show up is a dick." and so you do go with it because he's being sweet and trying to save you (and plus he's the cutest thing you've ever seen) and as you're leaving the restaurant after the best non-planned date ever, he asks you out for real this time."

This is a muggle AU setting and has not been proofread. I apologize for any mistakes or inconsistencies. Ronbashing ahead, sorry.

 **Disclaimer:** "Harry Potter" is the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling  & Warner Bros. This is written as fanfiction and is not intended as copyright infringement.

* * *

Hermione fidgeted with the fork to the left of her plate as she glanced down at her phone for the seventeenth time. _Five minutes_. Her thumb flickered over the screen: _I'm here_.

Maybe he was just running late. There might have been an accident, or maybe he was planning something special. Maybe his mother had called him unexpectedly and he was having trouble hanging up. _Or maybe_ , that nasty voice in her head whispered, _he doesn't care about you_.

That couldn't be true. Ron was forgetful and a bit insensitive when it came down to it, but he cared for her. Of course he did!

She had met him through Harry, her lab partner in biology freshman year of college. They were roommates, and when she went over to Harry's to study (her roommate, Lavender, _always_ was having loud and animated conversations in their room), Ron would sometimes be there. He was on the school soccer team, a decently good player, and most often he would just be leaving for practice when she arrived.

Her attention had been caught immediately by that lopsided grin and relaxed posture, as if he were perfectly at home with himself, something she had never been. She was clumsy and awkward, a scholar through and through. No athletic abilities whatsoever, and her spatial awareness was laughable. Harry always got a good chuckle out of seeing her bang into the corner of his desk, no matter how many times she did it.

Carefully, she took a sip from the weeping tumbler of iced water to the right of her plate, her eyes flicking down to the time on her screen as she did so. _Ten minutes_.

The waiter passed by on his way to another table, his tray laden with deliciously aromatic food. Her stomach rumbled, and she pressed a hand to her belly to try and quiet it. It was already an hour later than she usually ate dinner, because Ron's soccer practice was scheduled between two and six, and then he needed to shower. This was supposed to be a nice dinner to celebrate her birthday, which he'd been too busy to celebrate with her on Saturday due to a tournament in France.

Gradually, the water level in her glass grew lower and lower. The waiter dropped by to refill her glass, giving her a sympathetic look as she murmured her thanks. A family of four, seated just after her, considered their dessert options. Ron was now nearly forty minutes late, with no communication to explain his tardiness. Her water tasted sharp and bitter, like broken glass.

She texted Harry. _Do you know where Ron is?_

He replied instantly. _No. I thought he was with you?_

 _He's not_.

He didn't respond after that. She tugged at the brown curls that framed her face, willing Ron to answer. She hoped that he was okay.

The family of four paid their check and got up to leave. As the passed her by, their youngest child waved cheerily at her. She barely mustered the energy to smile back.

A loud party of other college-age students—she recognized a few of them from the sorority down the street—sat down, taking up three tables as they chattered. One of them, a man with white-blond hair and an angular jaw, considered her briefly. Her cheeks reddened as his gaze dropped to the empty seat across from her, with its untouched glass of water. Looking away with shame, she decided that she had waited long enough. Gathering her things, she was startled by the sound of a cool, dry English accent, drawling loudly, "Sorry, sweetheart, work ran late and my cell is dead."

Her head came up jerkily to see the white-blond man sliding into the seat across from her. As the waiter watched from afar with an expression of relief, she frowned in confusion. The man leaned closer.

"The name's Draco. Just go along with it, all right? Pansy said you've been here since before she started her shift," he added, jerking his head at a snub-nosed girl with dark hair who was waitressing tables a row over. Hermione recognized her from freshman chemistry, although she would never have remembered her name. "Whoever stood you up is a boorish swine, leaving you out to hang like this."

"Oh, I uh," she stammered, turning tomato red. "I'm sure he er, got caught in traffic."

"There's no traffic, sweetheart," he said softly, his eyes full of sympathy. "It's smooth sailing until you hit I-90, and even then it's only a thirty minute backup."

"Oh," she murmured, crushed by this knowledge.

"Buck up," he said with a small smile. "You've been blessed with my presence tonight, so hopefully it's not all bad?"

She had to smile. "No, and thank you. I was honestly just going to leave when you sat down."

He took a sip of water, and she watched his Adam's apple bob in his pale throat as he swallowed. "So, tell me about yourself."

She blinked, her mind a complete blank. What could she possibly tell him? There was nothing interesting about her, a consummate bookworm with no hobbies to speak of (unless you counted knitting, and she was bad at that, too). "I, er—"

"Or maybe you'd rather I tell you about myself," he offered smoothly, noting her discomfort. Abruptly, he switched topics. "Daphne says hello, by the way. She loved your recommendation on the color for her living room." His lips twitched, as if the color of living rooms was too trivial to require a recommendation. She was about to ask who Daphne was and what on earth he was talking about when the waiter's voice startled her out of her reverie.

"Did you need a moment to look at the menu?" She realized with sudden inspiration that he was deliberately ensuring that nobody caught the lie. He was looking out for her, helping her to save face.

"I'll have the chicken marsala, please, with a glass of the pinot noir," Draco answered easily, handing off his menu to the waiter before turning to Hermione. She had to applaud his acting skills as he asked, "Sweetheart? Did you decide?"

"Oh! Um." She looked down, flustered. "I'll have the risotto, please."

"Would you like a glass of wine with that?" the waiter asked as he took her menu. She blinked owlishly at him. Wine? With mushroom risotto? She couldn't remember the last time she had had anything but cheap beer.

"Chardonnay?" Draco suggested, meeting her eyes. _Trust me_. She nodded. "She'll have the Silver Birches Chardonnay, if you please."

"I'll be right out with that," Joe—for that was what his nametag declared was his given name—said cheerfully, walking away briskly.

"So, not one for spirits, I take it?" Draco asked conversationally, taking another sip of his water.

She flushed and shook her head. "No," she admitted. "My boyfr—I've only ever had beer, really, unless you count tasting the wine my parents would drink at home."

He didn't flinch at her slip up. "You're missing out, my dear. Incidentally, you never told me your name. If we're going to carry this charade through, I think I ought to know your given name." He offered her a dazzling smile.

Feeling an answering smile tug at the corners of her lips, she answered, "Hermione."

A quirk of the eyebrows. "After the daughter of Helen of Troy, or the Shakespearean queen?"

"The Greek one," she admitted. "My mother adores Greek mythology."

"Ah." An understanding nod. "At least yours is a name chosen with care. Mine was simply the next available constellation."

She choked on her water. "Is _that_ where your name came from? I thought it was short for something."

He laughed. "No, nothing quite so fortunate. My mother's family has a propensity to name their children after stars or constellations, and she carried on the tradition. Old English family, you know, very…traditional." Something dark flitted across his face.

She fumbled for words. "I think it's a beautiful name," she blurted out, and then blushed. _Why_ did this man make her blush so?

A surprised, pleased smile stretched his cheeks. "As is yours." Again, he steered their conversation into "familiar" territory as Joe returned with their wine. "Gregory has invited us to dinner next week. It promises to be filling, if dull; Arlene is making that tuna casserole you love so much."

She had recovered enough by now to add her own fiction to the story; "I have a movie night with Ginny on Monday—when is Greg having dinner? Maybe I can skip the tuna casserole," she added, making a face.

Joe smiled at them as he left, glad to see that the quietly elegant girl with the chocolate curls had not been stood up after all.

"If you must know," Draco said as Joe walked away, " _Gregory_ is having dinner on Friday like he always does. It's poker night."

Hermione chuckled. "If I had any idea who these people were, I'm sure I would be captivated with interest."

"You really wouldn't. Greg's a solid friend but he's not the sharpest tool, if you know what I mean." Draco raised his glass. "A toast, to unlikely friends?"

Hermione agreed, lifting her own glass in answer. As she sipped, she reflected on how much fun she was having tonight, despite being stood up by her boyfriend. She frowned as she remembered this; was it considered cheating to be spending the evening with another man?

"What's troubling you, beautiful?" Draco asked, looking for all the world like a concerned boyfriend, the very picture of worry.

She shook her head. "It's nothing," she said quietly, subdued.

"If it's about your bell-end of a boyfriend, don't fret. Just enjoy the here and now," Draco urged. "I promise, I won't be anything other than a complete and perfect gentleman. Although if I might add, he doesn't deserve you."

They made it through two rather large glasses of wine by the time the meal was over, and for Hermione, whose alcohol tolerance was all but nonexistent, that was far, far too much for propriety. She wished heartily, as her head spun, that she had not _appreciated_ the wine Draco had chosen for her so much.

"Would you like to look at our dessert menu?" Joe asked as he cleared their plates. Draco eyed his pseudo-date and shook his head.

"Just the check, please." He turned to Hermione as their waiter carried his burden back to the kitchen. "Hermione? Are you all right?"

"I told you, I don't drink," she slurred. Tears pooled thickly on her lashes as a sudden rush of emotion swept her up. "Ron never drinks anything but cheap beer, and when he can get it for free at a party it's even better."

It was the first time she had named the man who had stood her up, but Draco recognized it for what it was. He also recognized that it was time to get her home. "Would you prefer that I call you a cab, or would you allow me to escort you home?" he asked as he signed the bill.

"Hey, wait—" she protested, reaching belatedly for the bill, which had already been charged to his card and signed in his name. "

He smirked at her, and she found, to her surprise, that her throat went dry at the wickedness in his expression. "It seems you owe me a dinner, Miss Hermione."

"Granger," she slurred. "'ermione Granger."

"Let's get you home, then, Miss Granger," he said briskly, standing up and helping her to her feet. She was steady enough on her feet, although she began to wander in the direction of the restrooms rather than the exit, and he grabbed her by the elbow and gently redirected her. "I'm very sorry to have given you so much to drink, I didn't quite realize how low your tolerance is."

"'s all right," she mumbled. "Where're you going? My car's that way," she protested, waving her arm haphazardly.

"You are in no condition to drive, Hermione," he said with a voice filled with amusement. "Do you remember your address in this state?"

She opened her mouth to retort, but paused as the world spun from the sudden movement. Slowly, she shook her head. "No," she admitted.

Draco chewed on his lip. "I shall take you to my apartment, then," he decided at length. "Come on, then, Miss Granger."

They drove in silence for about ten minutes before she said suddenly, "Ron's a right bastard."

He chuckled. "Far be it for me to disagree. I do like your little accent there, very quaint."

"You're mocking me."

"Only a little, sweetheart."

When they reached his apartment, he made her sit on the couch ("settee") while he changed the sheets on his bed. She had sobered enough to protest, arguing that the couch was perfectly fine. He didn't deign to answer her, instead disappearing into his room with an armful of bed linens.

With a sigh, she sat back down, leaning sleepily against the arm of the couch and nestling into the cushions. Why did he have _so many_ cushions?

She was asleep by the time he finished, and he had to roll his eyes. Picking her up was no small task—she wasn't exactly small or waifish, and he had never been terribly muscular, although he did cut a fine figure in a suit—but he managed it in the end, tucking her in after removing her shoes. "Goodnight, Hermione," he said softly as he turned off the light and shut the door.

When she woke in the morning, Hermione found that she survived hangovers better than should be expected. Rubbing her eyes blearily, she squinted at the unfamiliar room. Then her hands flew to her mouth, and she turned to look at the space beside her, filled with trepidation.

Empty.

A woosh of air escaped her as she sagged momentarily, thankful that her clothes were still on and the bed was empty. Ron would never forgive her—she would never forgive _herself_ —if she'd cheated on him.

Even if the reason she had spent the evening with another man was entirely his fault.

Stiffly, she got out of bed, wincing as the straps of her bra dug and twisted in odd ways. First, the bathroom. Hesitantly, she eased open the door, and broke into a grin at the sight of her savior of the evening sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown over his face. _He_ had been sober enough to shower and change. She, on the other hand, felt grubby and rumpled. _Where_ was that bathroom?

When she emerged from the bathroom, he was awake, yawning as he poked at a kettle. He graced her with a brilliant smile. "Good morning, beautiful," he said cheerily. "Do you need anything? Aspirin?"

"I'm fine," she answered shyly, ducking her head as a hand flew unconsciously to her unruly curls.

"I do apologize for not taking you home but you weren't in any state to tell me your address. Would you like to go back to the restaurant to pick up your car right now, or would you like breakfast first? I could make you a full English, if you're interested," he added, winking at her. She wasn't entirely sure if he had meant the double entendre, but it didn't matter. This man was a drug to her senses.

"I'd love that."

"Good. You can turn on the telly if you like, there might be something interesting on the news. How do you like your eggs?"

"Sunny side up," she answered, remembering fondly the golden puddles that she mopped up with her hash browns on Sunday mornings. Bacon, eggs, and hash browns, with a pot of strong coffee—that had been a Sunday morning staple for as long as she could remember.

"My favorite," he approved.

His phone was laying on the couch, and although she didn't mean to, Hermione saw the text that popped up on screen as he opened a tin of baked beans.

 _We still on for tonight?_

It was from an 'Astoria.' Suddenly, Hermione realized that she didn't know if this man had a girlfriend, or a fiancée, or wife, or anything. What if she was intruding? And what about Ron?

"You have a text," she called, picking up the phone and crossing over to the kitchen.

"Who from?" he asked, glancing up as he laid bacon on a roasting tray. It wasn't American bacon, she noted. More like Canadian, although something told her that this man would put forth the effort to buy real English bacon. "It's not Astoria, is it?"

"Er, yes," Hermione answered, holding out the phone so he could read the message.

He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Pansy's been trying to set me up with her," he explained as he washed his hands. "We were supposed to go out tonight."

"Oh." Hermione felt very small. "I guess I'd better go then—"

"But you haven't had breakfast yet!" he protested. "Look, Hermione, last evening was the best time I've had in a long time. If…if you wanted to, I'd like to do it again." He grabbed her hands, looking pleadingly into her eyes.

"I—" she stuttered, and lowered her gaze. "I have to talk to Ron."

He dropped her as if he had been scalded, looking ashamed. "I'm so sorry. I forget myself. Of course, you must talk to him as soon as you can. Perhaps it was all an innocent mistake."

They moved onto lighter, safer topics as he finished making their breakfasts and laid them out. It was delicious, and she found herself trying black pudding for the first time.

"Where on earth did you buy this? You didn't order it from England, did you?" she asked, eyeing the blood sausage.

He laughed. "No, no, there's a local butcher from Kent half an hour from here. I've mentioned him before—Gregory. Not the most engaging conversationalist, but he does an excellent job, and his wife is a superb cook. Even if she prefers tuna casserole over all else, which I will never understand."

He refused to let her help wash the dishes, insisting that he would do them once he had delivered her to her car. Helping her to put on her coat, he was just as solicitous as he had been the night before. If his hands lingered a touch too long at her waist as he ushered her gently through the door, well, he had kept his hands to himself very well otherwise.

"Here we are," he said, pulling into the parking space next to hers. Without giving her a chance to say a word, he opened the door and got out, coming around to the passenger side to open her door for her. As she accepted his hand and climbed out of the car, he took a deep breath. "I—I hope that I have given you no cause for regret, Hermione. It was a pleasure."

She smiled. "No, of course not," she said softly. "Thank you, Draco." Quickly, before her courage faltered, she stretched up and kissed his cheek, turning away swiftly and escaping into her car as her own cheeks burned.

As she pulled out of the parking lot, Draco's hand came up to press against his cheek, as if to hold the memory of that kiss forever.

* * *

Ron did not take the news of her spending the night with another man well. No matter how much she protested that nothing had happened, that she had slept at his apartment only because she was too drunk to drive, did nothing to dispel his anger. In fact, he accused her of cheating on him by allowing another man to see her so vulnerable. And _wine_? That was for _stuck up assholes_!

She showed up on Harry's doorstep with three suitcases and several cardboard boxes haphazardly stuffed with books and clothes, her face stained with tears.

"He didn't." Harry took one look at her and called Ginny. The fiery redhead was there in minutes (she only lived down the street, at her sorority, while Harry had taken over an old fraternity house whose occupants had outgrown their original home), brown eyes blazing with fury.

"He _didn't_ ," she snarled, glaring at Hermione's things sitting in the hallway as her best friend sobbed into her boyfriend's shoulder. "That bastard, I'll castrate him—"

"No!" Hermione protested, sitting up even as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Don't hurt him, it's not his fault, I shouldn't have—"

"You stop right there, Hermione Granger," Harry declared sternly. "You did nothing to deserve this. This…Draco person came to your rescue when Ron left you high and dry. If anything, Ron should be the one apologizing to _you_."

"Do you even know his last name?" Ginny asked suddenly, flopping down on the couch with a tub of Ben & Jerry's Brownie Batter ice cream and three spoons. As she handed them out, Hermione hiccupped and shook her head in despair.

"Didn't you say one of the waitresses at the restaurant was the one who told him you'd been waiting forever? Maybe she would know how you can contact him?" Harry suggested, rubbing Hermione's shoulder comfortingly.

"Maybe," she conceded, taking a frighteningly large spoonful of ice cream. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Coming!" Draco hauled himself off the couch, fighting the sudden dizziness that came after sitting around for too long. He had been watching a documentary on Prince William and his wife, Kate, and before that, he had watched three straight hours of Doctor Who. He had to admit it; he was missing home.

He said later that he wasn't sure who he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't the girl with the glorious chocolate curls and sharp wit he had rescued from public humiliation not even forty eight hours ago.

"Hermione," he breathed. And then—"How did you find me?"

She flushed. "I'm not a stalker, I swear, I asked Pansy because I needed to find you, to talk to you and tell you that Ron and I are over and if you still want to, I want to try this again," she said in a rush, peering up at him anxiously.

He swallowed. "You broke up with your boyfriend?"

Her mouth compressed into a thin line. "He broke up with me."

"I'm sorry," he said regretfully. "It's all my fault—"

"Don't you dare blame yourself, Draco Malfoy. This had nothing to do with you, you were right, he's a right dickhead."

"I believe the term I used was 'bell end,'" he pointed out in a strangled voice. Hearing her say his name did funny things to his stomach. "Would you like to come in?"

She chewed on her lip. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

"Then yes."

* * *

He was late. Ten minutes late, to be exact, and he was not answering any of her texts.

Hermione felt the anxiousness bubble up, remembering the last time she had sat in this restaurant ( _at this table!_ ) waiting for her date to show up. Looking down at her phone, she tried to distract herself by checking her work emails.

The scraping of the chair against the floor made her look up in surprise at the man sliding into the seat across from her. "Sorry I'm late, sweetheart," he said with genuine contrition. "Traffic is horrendous."

She sighed with relief. "And here I thought I'd need another knight in shining armor."

"Should I be worried?" Draco asked, glancing at her over the menu.

"I don't know, are you a bell end?" she shot back cheekily.

"Keep that up and you won't be getting your birthday present."

"You are my birthday present." He colored, and she laughed. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Draco Malfoy. Don't you remember, one year ago you came to my rescue, right here? The rest is, as they say, history."

"Hermione," a voice said, and the guilty party jumped, having forgotten that they were in a restaurant. She looked up to see Pansy grinning at her. Despite the girl's tendency to blurt out what she was thinking without censoring herself, they had become good friends, and the glint in Pansy's eye made Hermione wonder what she had gotten herself into now. "Happy birthday!"

"Oh no," she groaned, as Draco grinned wickedly at her.

They sang "Happy Birthday" to her as they brought out a beautifully decorated cake, along with a bouquet of what had to be the most obnoxiously shiny foil balloons the store had had to offer.

Later, as Draco opened the door of his (their) apartment, he murmured, "Happy birthday, love."

In answer, she yanked him down by the collar and pressed her lips against his. "Best. Birthday. Ever," she replied softly against his mouth. He tasted of sugar and wine and scintillating light, all smooth and soft and nothing like broken glass in the least.


End file.
